


Spring Fever

by Saucery



Series: The Sterek Porn Collection [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actual Kitten Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe, Animals, But It's Still Interspecies, Cat!Stiles, Cats, Crack, Dog!Derek, Dog(s), Dry Humping, Frottage, Humor, Interspecies, It Ain't Bestiality If They're Both Animals, Kittens, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Needs Fanart, Oh Dear, Opposites Attract, Or Maybe Just LOLcats, Pets, Romance, Scarred For Life, Spring, Spring Fling, The Author is Clearly Insane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't stop purring. Also, he's walking around with a hard-on. Awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Fever

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Весенняя лихорадка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151279) by [CallMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMe/pseuds/CallMe)



> Kitty!Stiles for the win! Yeah, I know that male cats don't go into heat like this, but you'd be wise to suspend your disbelief. We need some interspecies mounting to happen. The end.

* * *

 

Stiles needs to be petted, okay? It’s a thing. And everyone says cats are supposed to be, like, arrogant and untouchable, but Stiles doesn’t give a shit about his street cred, or whatever. He needs what he needs. He’s honest about it. He rubs up against his master’s leg, and purrs when Scott scratches him under his chin, and goes belly-up at the slightest hint of play.

Maybe he’s pathetic. Lydia certainly seems to think so. She’s the perfect cat, sleek and beautiful and impossible to please, and her master, Jackson, acts like he’s her slave, instead. She enjoys gourmet cat food and a lacy basket that looks more like a throne than anything else. Every cat in the neighborhood looks up to Lydia. Including Stiles, of course.

Which is why he’s gotta avoid her—and everyone else—when he starts going into heat. It takes him ages to figure out it’s even happening, because he’s only turned six months old and hasn’t had a heat, before. He just starts getting warm, at first—annoyingly warm and then distressingly warm, then _hot_ , pulse racing, weird shivers racing up and down his spine that make his fur stand on end and his tail stick straight up. Scott’s too much of an idiot to pick up on what’s going on, thankfully, so Stiles takes the reprieve for what it is and sneaks out of the house.

He can’t let Lydia see him like this. It’s humiliating. Any more of this, and he’s seriously going to start humping inanimate objects in public. Hell, he might even try to mount Lydia. And then she’ll never talk to him again. Not that she really talks to him now, but—no. Just. No.

So he heads for the most deserted place he can think of—the forest—and maybe his good judgment is compromised because of the heat, or something, because he genuinely forgets for a moment why he’s not supposed to go there, and that the reason every cat in town avoids the forest like the plague is because of the Hales, that creepy pack of evil, wolfish dogs with glowing eyes and sharp, slavering teeth. Stiles just… forgets, because all he wants is to be alone and to rut against—something, okay, fine, something living would be preferable, but he’s not kidding himself about finding a partner for his first heat. Especially given how totally uncool he is. He can’t stop purring. Also, he’s walking around with a hard-on. Awkward.

And it’s getting worse. It’s getting immeasurably worse, waves of heat rising and receding in his body, like there’s an ocean of flames inside him, foaming and frothing and in high tide. He can barely breathe. Everything’s so loud and close—the rustle of leaves, the sound of his own whine—that he doesn’t notice someone else is there until, well, someone else _is_ there. Standing in front of him.

Looming in front of him.

Red-eyed, black-furred and _massive_ —

“Uh,” says Stiles, shocked and scrambling back against the nearest tree, trying in a panicked burst of effort to climb it, but he’s delirious and his paws only scrabble uselessly against the bark. “Get—get away from me! I don’t—”

“You’re an idiot,” says the stranger, and, hey, it’s Derek Hale, the new Alpha of the Hale pack, not that Stiles is into pack politics or what the heck these dogs get up to in the wild, but everyone’s heard about the bleeding corpse of the last Alpha that had to be cleared off the road in the middle of town, after being left there like some sort of trophy. Some sort of message. ( _I’m the Alpha, now._ ) It’d been ripped to shreds, almost, and right this instant, the ripper is here. Derek the Ripper. Crap.

“Y-yeah, I’m reflecting on my idiocy for coming into the forest all on my lonesome, ha ha, clearly I have the IQ of a flea, I promise I’ll continue reflecting on my idiocy and will never be so idiotic ever again—”

“What are you doing here?”

“Being an idiot? I thought we’d established that. Okay, so I’m just going to go and hump something else, somewhere else. Excuse me.”

“Stay.” Oh, fuck, Derek’s pinning him. “ _Here_.”

Stiles gulps. His back is on the grass and Derek’s intimidatingly muscular chest is big enough to cover Stiles’s entire torso. Derek is almost three times his size. “Okay,” Stiles whispers, dizzy with terror and also the fact that there’s something living touching his penis, Hallelujah, except that it’s a crazy psycho killer from another species, so. Bad penis. Go down, penis. “I’ll, um. Uh.”

“You’re in heat,” says Derek, after a while, blinking at him like Stiles is—like Stiles is so far beyond an idiot that Derek doesn’t even know what to do with him. Which is great, because at least Stiles has company in not knowing what to do with himself, although his hips certainly know what to do with themselves, twitching upward helplessly, rubbing his erection against Derek’s rough-soft fur.

Stiles shuts his eyes, too humiliated to see the expression that must be on Derek’s face. “Yeah,” he mumbles miserably, because he can’t stop moving, and it’s not his fault, because if Derek would just climb off of Stiles and go on his merry way across the woods, terrifying rabbits and small woodland animals back into their burrows, then Stiles could flip over and jizz all over the fallen leaves like a decent person, instead of involuntarily assaulting a freaking dog.

“Hush,” Derek commands, and Stiles quivers when a cold, wet snout presses against his flattened ears, followed by a cool, damp tongue, long and alien and smooth.

“Wh-why?” Stiles says. “You—”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Derek repeats, like that means anything, and there’s a subvocal growl in his voice that should be frightening the bejeezus outta Stiles but just makes him thrust harder. “You can’t be out here, smelling like this. It’s smoke calling to fire.”

“That doesn’t even make any s-sense,” Stiles stutters, breath stuttering along with him, because—what, is Derek implying his pack would, like… do something? To Stiles? To a cat? Other than kill it? Kill it dead? Then again, Derek isn’t killing him dead. Derek’s…

What is Derek doing, exactly? Why’s he letting some random kitten rub up on him?

Derek’s a goddamn Alpha male. Derek probably has booty-calls lined up from here to Hawaii, and any female within howling-distance would be happy to mate with him. Not that Stiles finds dogs attractive—that would be depraved—but if he were a dog, he would’ve had to admit that Derek has an attractive kind of attractiveness going on, in a rip-your-face-off-and-feast-on-your-entrails kind of way.

“That’s it,” Derek says. “Get it over with. You’ll feel better, after.”

Get it—get it _over_ with? Stiles nips vengefully at Derek’s nose, but Derek just huffs and captures Stiles’s scruff, instead, fangs pressing ever-so-lightly against Stiles’s pulse, which jumps and jolts and gives way to a frantic, super-embarrassing series of mewls that sound like Stiles is begging to be fucked, but that’s… that’s not…

Oh, who the fuck is he kidding, that’s what he wants, that’s what he _needs_ —

But Derek’s so fucking huge that he’d hurt twice as much as he’d feel good.

What is Stiles thinking?

Why’re his hind legs spreading like that? Why does he want to turn over on all fours and splay them, stick his ass up in the air and…

“Your scent,” Derek starts and then cuts himself off. His voice is rumbling and gravelly and hoarse, like he’s—

Is he feeling it, too?

“Hurry up,” Derek snarls, claws digging into the dirt on either side of Stiles’s head, like a threat. Like a promise.

And when Stiles whines, Derek does the unthinkable, for a split second, and thrusts back.

The force of it is enough to knock the purr right out of Stiles’s purr-box, but it only resumes, stunned and scared and hopelessly, helplessly turned on, when Stiles realizes that that’s Derek’s dick coming out down there, lengthening and slickening and stiffening.

That’s it, for Stiles. He’s gonna come. He’s gonna _come_ —

“Do it,” and Derek’s teeth scrape along Stiles’s neck and his tongue finds its way into Stiles’s mouth, ravenous and deep.

And Stiles comes just like that, seizing up and arching, the spines at the base of his penis catching on Derek’s fur.

It’s—

It’s so bright that it blinds him, burns him to ash, and it only gets brighter and brighter, until…

Everything goes dark.

 

* * *

 

When Stiles wakes up, it’s to the sight of leaves moving swiftly under him and the distinct sensation of swinging back and forth from someone’s jaw, their spit soaking into the fur at his nape. He hasn’t been carried like this since he was a newborn, since before his mother died.

Since then.

“Um,” he says. “I’m awake, now? You can set me down, maybe. Hello?”

But Derek (it _is_ Derek, has to be, all fire-and-brimstone scent) ignores him, until they’re just outside the woods, at the road running just outside them, and there, Derek unceremoniously dumps Stiles on the tarmac.

“Hey!” Stiles whips around, tail fluffed-up with indignation.

“Get out,” Derek growls, immovable as a monolith, “and stay out.”

“That’s not what you were saying a while ago, Mr. Happy Penis. Speaking of, why isn’t it happy, anymore? Shit, did I pass out for that long? Sorry, I should’ve—”

“Get. Out.”

“No, really, are you cheesed off ’cause I came without you? I can absolutely, um, do something. For you. Anything that doesn’t involve grievous bodily harm to me, anyway. I, er, I’m told I have an oral fixation? I like wrapping my mouth around pretty much anything, I’ve ruined enough of Scott’s mom’s household items that she’s—”

Derek takes a menacing step forward.

Stiles shuts up. The guy really is gigantic, broad and buff and stern and the sort of sexy that’s remote and closed-off, composed in a way that makes you want to break that composure, break it wide open and peer at what’s behind the mask.

And, yeah, it seems like Stiles is more than capable of jumping the species line for orgasms. Who knew he was such a depraved, characterless, opportunistic slut?

Then again, orgasms. Do things like public opinion really matter when stacked up against, heh, pubic opinion?

“You said that out loud,” Derek points out, managing to look uncomfortable and unwillingly amused and appalled and—is Stiles imagining things?—fond at the same time, while still making the sentence he’s just spoken sound like an expressionless death sentence. As in, a sentence foretelling Stiles’s messy death at the hands (paws? Padded feet?) of Derek the Alpha.

“I did? Guess I did. My offer still stands, though. Tall and proud and magnificent. Just like your—”

“Go,” Derek insists. “It isn’t safe here. If you start going into heat again…”

“I’ll find you,” Stiles beams. “Gotcha.”

Derek glares. His eyes are a dangerous amber-red, but given that a) he hasn’t killed Stiles yet, and b) he was right there with Stiles for the jumping-the-species-line thing, Stiles doesn’t feel too threatened. “Seek out one of your own kind,” Derek grits out, hackles fake-raised, ’cause, yeah, Stiles can tell it’s fake. Considering that Derek carried him all the way over here so gently that Stiles’s neck doesn’t feel even a little bit bruised.

Stiles just sits down on his behind, curls his tail around himself, and grins. Trills. Trill-grins.

Derek’s eyes narrow. Finally, he shakes himself, as if to rid himself of a persistent flea, and lopes silently back into the forest, disappearing into the leafy shadows.

Stiles licks his own muzzle (it still tastes of Derek’s saliva), grooms himself (he still smells like Derek) and when he’s looking presentable again and somewhat less like he’s been ravished within an inch of his life by a giant canine, he heads back into town, clear-headed and thrilled and thrumming head-to-toe with a contentment so rich and complete that it makes Stiles’s tail wave high in the air.

He remembers to take a detour to the McCall house, though, because he doesn’t need any of the neighbors’ cats wondering why the hell he smells like sex and dog. That would be, uh. Well, that’d be even more awkward than the perpetual boner. Almost. Maybe.

He’s just going to laze around in the cozy bed Scott’s made for him, basking in the champagne-bubble feeling currently making him feel buoyant and relaxed and loose-limbed, until Derek’s scent fades from him.

He’ll miss it, when it’s gone. But he’s also got the feeling that he’ll get it back. Sooner rather than later.

Springtime isn’t over, after all. There’s still a heat or two.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended reading: [Once Bitten (Twice Shy)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/317402).


End file.
